THE CIRCUS LOSES ITS AVIATOR
By this time scores of circus employees had reached the edge of
the woods. The principal owner had also arrived. He seemed to take
charge of everything. With orders to those holding the rope binding
the helpless tiger he hurried to the wrecked aeroplane. While Mr.
Trevor and the boys followed on a run, a dozen men lifted the twisted
sections. Face down, with the lower plane section on his back and his
face buried in the marshy ground, lay the unconscious young aviator.
While some lifted the wrecked machine, others drew the boy from the
wreckage and laid him on the grass. Then the crowd closed about. Mr.
Trevor forced his way into the curious group and assisted in the
examination. There was no blood. But apparently the lad was severely
injured.
“I have a machine here,” Mr. Trevor exclaimed to the circus owner.
“Where do you want him taken?”
“I don’t know,” answered the man. “Better take him to the train I
suppose. There’s a colored man there. I’ll send a doctor right away.”
There was no lack of volunteers to bear the limp body to Mr. Trevor’s
machine. Selecting Art and Alex, Mr. Trevor laid the pale-faced aviator
on the rear seat with the two boys to look after him.
“Want to go with us?” he called to the circus owner. “It’ll be faster.”
“I’ve got a horse here,” was the answer. “I’ll be along at once. I’ve
got to look after this animal now.”
Even in his haste and concern for the injured boy, Mr. Trevor looked up
in surprise.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll look after him.”
The power was thrown on and the automobile was speeded to the center of
the town. On the first motion of it the unconscious boy began to groan.
“He’s pretty white, father,” said Art over his shoulder. “Hurry.”
The suffering boy was dressed in soiled and worn clothing but it was
now seen that he had a good face, clean-cut features, heavy brown hair
and big hands, strong beyond his years, which very apparently were not
more than seventeen.
At high speed Mr. Trevor dashed through the town to the side-tracked
circus train. Both Mr. Trevor and Alex sprang out and ran to the old
sleeping cars at the end of the train. They were all locked. There was
no one in charge. If a colored man should have been there he had left
his post.
“Don’t look any longer, father; I can’t stand his groanin’. Let’s find
a doctor.”
Mr. Trevor whirled the machine into a side street and in a few moments
stopped before a little single-room office on a back street.
“Brown,” he called anxiously, “hurry out here.”
A youngish man, Dr. Brown, appeared in his shirt sleeves.
“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy and
springing to the lad’s side. “Seems to be in a bad way,” he added
catching young Bonner’s wrist. In some mysterious way a few people
began at once to surround the automobile.
“It’s a boy from the circus,” explained Art. “He fell in an aeroplane.
Is he much hurt?”
From the boy’s pulse the doctor’s hands had reached for the boy’s
heart and forehead. Without reply, the doctor sprang to the ground and
an instant later was back with a stimulant which he forced between
the injured boy’s teeth. Again he took hold of his wrist and for some
moments sat in silence watching the unconscious form.
Meanwhile Mr. Trevor was pleading with the growing crowd to stand back.
Apparently the effect of the doctor’s stimulant was not what he had
hoped. Rushing into the office once more he came out with his hat and
coat, his surgical case and a hypodermic syringe. He bared the lad’s
arm――there was no sign of blood――then injected some other stimulant.
“Where does he belong?” Dr. Brown asked with concern. “He must be cared
for at once. It’s only another proof of Scottsville’s disgrace――the
lack of a hospital. I can’t examine him here. Are there any
accommodations at the circus?”
Mr. Trevor had thought of that and he knew that there was neither bed
nor cot at the circus.
“I hardly know where to take him,” Mr. Trevor began. “Perhaps we had
better go to a hotel――”
“Take him home, father,” exclaimed Art. “I wish you would. There’s no
one at the hotel. Mebbe he’s goin’ to die.”
Without reply Mr. Trevor turned to the wheel again and, the doctor
crouching at the young aviator’s side with the boy’s hand in his, it
was only a few turns and Elm Street was reached.
Mrs. Trevor’s alarm at the sight of the prostrate form, was because
she was sure it was Arthur. But a word of explanation turned her into
an efficient emergency nurse. A few minutes later the still-groaning
victim was lying in the snowy sheets of one of Mrs. Trevor’s guest beds.
Art and Alex crowded the doorway until there came a sudden order from
Dr. Brown that Dr. Wells be called, and the two boys dashed away in the
automobile on this errand. When the other physician had been found and
carried to the Trevor home there was some news of the lad’s condition.
“There’s a bad wound in his back,” explained Mr. Trevor coming from the
sick room, “and he’s lost a good deal of blood. His underclothes were
saturated. His spine may be injured. There’s something the matter with
his legs, too.”
Art and Alex could only retire to the porch and await developments.
It was the first time either had come into such close contact with a
serious accident and both were excited. In half an hour Mr. Trevor
appeared; very grave in looks.
“Drive me to the circus, Arthur. You may come too, Alex,” he added.
It was discovered that the rear seat was damp with blood. The cushions
were turned over and the trip to the grounds hastily made.
The traveling owners of the show were yet at the scene of the accident
engaged in the task of caging the trapped tiger. Mr. Trevor ordered the
machine driven to that place. The smashed aeroplane was lying where it
fell. The principal owner was superintending the recovery of the tiger.
His horse and light wagon stood near. There was every sign that he had
forgotten even to summon a doctor to attend his injured employee.
Circus hands had brought up an empty animal cage and an animal transfer
box used in shipping savage beasts. Some one had crawled halfway up
the tree and made fast two heavy ropes. Then the partly rotten tree
had been cut through at the base and, some holding the tree base in
place, dozens of employees had eased the severed tree trunk to the
ground. Those familiar with wild beasts had already further pinioned
the growling tiger’s legs and, with much hauling and shouting, the bony
tiger had just been drawn into the transfer crate.
“How’s the kid?” was the owner’s salutation.
“In a bad way I think. What do you want to do with him?”
“He’ll be all right in the car. I’m just goin’ to get a doctor.”
“The cars were closed. We couldn’t get into them. I’ve taken the boy to
my home to be examined.”
“Couldn’t get in the car?” was the circus man’s reply. “The nigger must
’a’ been asleep. I’ll see that it’s opened. You take him where I said.
Bad luck always comes double. We nearly lost our only tiger an’ now
this kid has to go an’ dump hisself. That’ll cut out our exhibition, to
say nothin’ ’bout a doctor bill.”
“I’m afraid he can’t be moved for several hours,” began Mr. Trevor.
“Well he’ll have to be moved before midnight,” answered the circus
man. “We can’t wait for him.”
“Hadn’t you better make some arrangement to have him cared for in this
town?” asked Mr. Trevor, his lips closing.
“I don’t see why I should,” answered the circus proprietor. “Business
is rotten enough. I’ve got to hire as cheap as I can and when work
stops, pay stops. Some one’s always sick.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re not going to care for this unfortunate
boy?” asked Mr. Trevor.
“I’ll care for him as well as I can if he comes along with the show.
You bring him to the train like I told you and I’ll do what I can.
That’s our practice in the show business. If he can’t do that he’ll
have to quit.”
“Quit!” exclaimed Mr. Trevor, his cheeks flushing. “Do you mean to say
you’ll not only abandon him but discharge him too?”
“What’s it to you?” broke in the man angrily. “Ain’t you mixin’ up a
little in our affairs? If you don’t like my way of doin’ things, go
about your own business!”
“My business,” replied Mr. Trevor calmly, “is looking after other
people’s business, sometimes. I can see that this boy has possibly
been killed in your service and while engaged in a task that no
reasonable employer would demand or permit. Should he die, I shall make
it my business to look up his parents or relatives. If he lives and is
incapacitated in any way you may expect to hear from me. It will cost
you more in damages than decent care of him will now cost you.”
The man winced and grew white with anger.
“What he done was voluntary,” he hastened to answer. “An’ as far as
damage suits goes――that’s up to you and him. But I’ll bet you this: I
didn’t start in the show business yesterday. This kid’s under contract
with me all signed and witnessed, both him and his machine. When he
pulls off his act he gets his money. When he don’t show up there ain’t
nothin’ doin’. What he done this afternoon was his own lookout. I
didn’t ask him. If you’ll figure out for me just why I should go on
a-payin’ him when his rotten old machine breaks, you’re quite some
figurer.”
Mr. Trevor was trembling with rage and contempt.
“How much a day do you pay him?” he asked at last.
“None o’ your business.”
“It will be mighty soon,” exclaimed the lawyer.
“Father,” broke in Art. “He said it was the boy’s aeroplane.”
“Correct,” snorted the circus man. “It’s his all right. I ain’t no
claim on it an’ I ain’t goin’ to touch it. When he wants it let him
send his friends for it.”
Although nearly all in the crowd were yet massed around the captured
tiger, a number of spectators had been attracted by the showman’s loud
words. Among these was Marshal Walter.
“Walter,” exclaimed Mr. Trevor with authority as he turned his back on
the showman, “that wrecked flying machine belongs to the young man who
was injured. The boy may die but we’re going to try to save him. Till
he recovers, he’ll be at my house. I want you to see that his property
is protected. To-night or in the morning I’ll send men to get it. Send
your deputy to the circus and get any other property or baggage he may
have.”
Without another look at the circus owner, Mr. Trevor summoned the two
boys and shortly before six o’clock reached his home again. Here all
were glad to learn that the suffering young aviator had aroused himself
for a few moments under stimulants and, his wounds having been dressed,
had fallen asleep. Other boys had already congregated at the house but
only Art and Connie were permitted to tip-toe into the guest chamber
for the first time. The boy on the bed looked very young. His big hands
lay limply on the smooth white sheet.
“He ain’t groanin’, anyway,” whispered Art.
“He’s resting very well now,” explained Dr. Brown. “To-morrow we’ll
know more about his injury. Mrs. Trevor,” he added, “I’ll have a nurse
here in half an hour.”
It appeared that Mr. Trevor had been deeply incensed at the
heartlessness of the circus people. He ordered the doctors to give
the boy every attention and that no expense be spared in getting a
competent nurse. He also did considerable telephoning before dinner and
later, explained that he had arranged to have the remnants of Bonner’s
machine collected and stored in McGuire’s farm and implement warehouse.
When the nurse appeared later and Mrs. Trevor was relieved from duty
she came down stairs as determined as her husband to protect the
unfortunate victim.
All day Sunday the patient lay in the big, dark room, partly under the
influence of opiates. There was no sign of suffering. That evening he
began to show signs of consciousness. The doctors, hastily summoned,
dressed his injuries anew and made a fuller examination. The verdict
was that he was recovering from the shock. That night the boy was
restless but the fact was kept from the family by the nurse. At
breakfast, however, she said she had reported conditions to the doctor,
who arrived within a few minutes. Dr. Brown had been with the sick boy
only a short time when he came down stairs and told Mr. Trevor that the
boy was fully conscious and insisted on knowing what had happened and
where he was. “And you’d better tell him,” suggested the doctor. “Ease
his mind all you can.”
When Mr. Trevor reappeared, a half hour later, he had a sober face.
Art, Alex and Wart Ware were with Mrs. Trevor on the porch.
“I’m mighty glad we happened to be there,” Mr. Trevor began. “It would
have been a shame for that boy to have fallen into the hands of his
scoundrelly employer. Our young patient’s name is what the bills
announce, William Bonner. He isn’t seventeen yet and he’s an orphan. He
lives in Newark, New Jersey. I told him all that happened. He did not
seem to remember about the tiger but he asked at once if the aeroplane
was wrecked. I thought I’d ease his mind and I told him ‘only a little
damaged.’”
“Ain’t a whole piece in it, ’cept the engine,” volunteered Ware, “but
I’m glad you didn’t tell him.”
“How’d he get an aeroplane,” asked Art, “if he’s an orphan?”
“He’s been working for the American Aeroplane Company for three years,”
explained Mr. Trevor. “Over a year ago he began making an aeroplane
of his own in a shed near his uncle’s home. He lived with his uncle.
In the meantime he learned to operate aeroplanes and was used as a
demonstrator. When his machine was as far along as he could get it
himself, some of the older workmen helped him. The material for it he
bought from the company and when he was ready for an engine he bought
that too. It cost him six hundred dollars and his other supplies two
hundred dollars. He had three hundred dollars that he paid and he owed
for the other five hundred. In the latter part of May this circus came
to Newark and Bonner applied for a job, promising to give two shows
each day. He got a ‘lay off’ from the factory for the summer and hoped
to pay off his debt in that way.”
“How much was he to get?” interrupted Connie eagerly.
“Five dollars a day and his living,” answered Mr. Trevor indignantly.
“You see what kind of living he must have had. He was with the circus
five weeks and got his pay up to Saturday night. Out of it he sent
one hundred dollars to apply on his debt. Most of the rest went for
gasoline and repairs. When I told him where he was he began to cry. He
was worried because he had no money and had lost his job.”
“Poor boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor.
“Can’t we go up and see him?” asked Art.
“Not to-day,” answered Mr. Trevor. “He’s worried so about all the
trouble he was causing that I had to ease his mind. I told him if
he wanted to, he could have a job as chauffeur with us as long as he
liked.”
“Is he going to?” cried Art.
“Boys,” responded Mr. Trevor softly. “Poor Bonner may never have a
chance to do anything again.”